


The answer

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Dubious Science, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Irene and Sherlock are bros, Jealousy, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Pining, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Social Experiments, Sort Of, an appealing lack of communication, and he doesn't like them, like very dubious, slowish burn, some Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-07 08:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15904827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: John Watson is at the end of his rope: hopeless, friendless and penniless, he finds himself applying to participate in a mysterious “social” experiment conducted by the even more mysterious (but debatably brilliant) Sherlock Holmes.Sherlock Holmes is a well known researcher, looking for the answer to the question that has plagued mankind since the beginning of civilization: What’s love?





	1. The selection process

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a while since I wrote Johnlock as the main pairing, but I’m hoping it’s like riding a bicycle: you never really forget (although I wouldn’t know about that since I don’t know how to ride a bicycle in the first place). That being said, I like the idea very much and I hope you will too!  
> This is based, somewhat loosely, on the book “The answers”; I basically borrowed the idea of the “experiment” but changed mostly everything else, going in the direction I thought the author was going to go when I first saw the book (the first chapter proved I was so very wrong).  
> I’ve already written a couple of chapters more, so updates should be somewhat steady (once a week, I’m thinking) unless of course inspiration deserts me, but since I have several scenes already written too, I should hope that won’t be an issue.  
> Now, without further ado, enjoy!

John stares at the fancy-looking building he’s standing outside of and checks his email on his phone for what feels like the millionth time, but the time and place haven’t changed, which means he’s in the right place.

The building is the sort of place that looks more like an hotel than a flat building, the sort of place he expects only rich executives would choose to live in. It even has a reception, with a pretty but bored-looking hostess, who smiles pleasantly but vacantly at him when he states his business. She directs him to the penthouse and a young man with an uniform that reads security lets him into the elevator, one of those fancy ones that need an special card to get you to the right floor.

As the elevator starts its way up, John wonders, also for the millionth time, just what exactly has he gotten himself into.

It’s true his financial situation is quickly approaching desperate, but everything about this  _ social study  _ sounds fishy. The fact that the person who answered the phone the first time he called to ask for information wouldn’t actually give him any, all the while asking him to release quite a bit of personal information and to fill in a bunch of formats that were sent to him via email, certainly didn’t help matters and now this-- why meet at this overly fancy place? He had expected to be summoned at the university or maybe even a private office, but this… this…

Before he can work himself into a right panic though, the elevator’s doors open, leaving him just outside the penthouse’s door. There’s someone waiting for him already, a young redheaded woman with a bright smile and easy demeanor. She’s wearing a white coat over a brown dress and sensible shoes, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail with a few stands hanging around her face. She’s quite pretty, John thinks distractedly, but seems a bit too young to be one of the main researchers.

Or so he thinks. In all honesty, he has no real clue how these things might work: for all he knows, social studies and their researchers might not be anything at all like those in charge of medical trials.

“Hello, Dr. Watson, I presume?” the woman greets chipperly, offering her hand to shake. “I’m Dr. Molly Hooper,” she continues, at John’s stiff nod. “Please follow me,” she says, pushing the door open and letting John go in first, the door closing a bit ominously behind them.

Again, John wonders what exactly has he gotten himself into.

And the answer remains: he has no idea whatsoever.

* * *

 

There’s another woman waiting inside, just as young and pretty as Dr. Hooper, although dark haired. She smiles politely, gesturing for John to take a seat in front of her and Dr. Hooper sits next to her. The whole seating is rather informal: they’re at what seems to be the flat’s living room, the women sitting on a long couch and John sits on a small armchair that’s rather comfortable.

He looks around curiously, taking in the tasteful but impersonally decorated flat. It’s clear as water that whoever lives there is not only ridiculously rich, but also rather posh. John wonders if the place belongs to one of the research team’s members, although he can’t imagine how they’d be able to afford it.

“Dr. Watson,” the second woman says, dragging his attention back to his interlocutors. There’s a name tag perched on the woman’s white coat, reading Dr. Hawkins. “Thank you for coming today,” she carries on, still smiling politely. “We do realize this has been a rather… unorthodox process.”

_ That’s one way to call it, _ John thinks, but doesn’t say. “I must admit it has gotten me more curious about the whole thing,” he admits, which he supposes it’s true enough. It has made him a little wary too and he supposes any sensible person wouldn’t have come at all, but John has been accused more than once of not being terribly sensible.

Dr. Hawkins just smiles some more. “I’m afraid you’re not getting any answers today either,” she says, gesturing for Dr. Hooper to pass her something, making the woman look into a briefcase that she seems to have pulled out of thin air. “And it’s probably going to continue getting more unorthodox, but I assure we’re all professionals here-- Ah, thank you Molly. Here, for your troubles,” she says, passing the piece of paper Dr. Hooper has retrieved from the briefcase. John glances at it and does a double take, really  _ looking at it. _

_ Definitely fishy,  _ he thinks to himself, making sure he read the number on the check right. It’s enough to cover this month's rent, not to mention pay for some much needed groceries. “If you’re concerned about our funding, you should know it’s partially university-funded, part private resources. The lead researcher is… most interested in the experiment’s success.”

“Right,” John says, not really buying it, but unwilling to ask any more questions, at least for the time being, simply putting the check away, adrenaline pumping in his veins.

Dr. Hawkins chuckles good naturedly. “This whole selection process has been must unconventional so far. You look far from worried though, Dr. Watson,” she’s looking for a particular answer, although John can’t begin to imagine which one is the right one.

“I’ve been to war, Dr. Hawkins,” he replies easily, with a small shrug. “I’m hardly an easily frightened man.”

She hums thoughtfully, looking in Dr. Hooper’s direction briefly, making sure she’s making notes. The redheaded has managed to fill almost a full page in the brief time they’ve been talking and John wonders if she’s transcripting his every word.  “Good,” Dr. Hawkins says, pulling out a notebook of her own. “As I said, we can’t share the main aspects of our investigation just yet, but you’ll be appropriately informed if you’re chosen to participate in it. Rest assured it’s nothing dangerous or life-threatening, although there’s been some… concerns about moral implications. But I’m getting ahead of myself,” she interrupts herself, sounding slightly embarrassed although John suspects that’s mostly for show. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. In the meantime, we’re going to start by asking you some questions we’re expecting you to answer  _ truthfully _ . Trust me, we’ll know if you’re lying.”

_ Oh, I doubt that,  _ John thinks but smiles blankly and nods. Dr. Hawkins’ small smirk tells him she’s not one bit fooled by his placid facade, but she doesn’t comment, starting with her questionnaire instead.

John answers truthfully.

At least for the most part.

* * *

 

He gets called in for another 3 meetings, each more surreal than the previous one. He gets asked all sort of curious and seemingly unimportant questions, among the ones he’d expect: where he went to school, why he wanted to become a doctor, where he’s living. And also what’s his favorite movie, food, actor/actress. The questions never seem to follow a particular patron and he soon realizes he’s been filmed and recorded the whole time. It had annoyed him, truth to be told, when he first found out, since they never told him that, nor did he consented to it, but he supposes there’s no real harm being done.

Besides, he gets given a check with each visit, so he really can’t complain.

Today he comes in for what he’s been told is the final interview. Today his questions will be answered (or so he hopes) and he must admit that, despite himself, all the secrecy has done nothing but increase his curiosity, making him more determined than ever to participate.

Today, Drs. Hawkins and Hooper are waiting for him inside the flat, but there’s another woman with them. She’s a little older than the other two, but just as beautiful, her dark hair pulled into a french braid, her green-but-not eyes shining with delight when John offers his hand to shake.

“Dr. Watson,” she greets, taking a seat on the long couch while Drs. Hawkins and Hooper stand behind her in attention. “I’m Dr. Irene Adler. Me and my co-researcher, Dr. Sherlock Holmes, are in charge of the investigation. Are you familiar with our works?”

John must admit that no, he isn’t and he says as much, which, against anything he could have predicted, only seems to delight the woman even more. “Very well,” she says, linking her hands beneath her chin in a thoughtful expression. “What we’re doing here, Dr. Watson-- well, if we’re successful, it’ll be revolutionary. We’ll be answering the question that has plagued the human race for as long as we’ve existed,” her eyes are shining, evidently quite taken with the idea. John nods politely, although he’s not convinced he’s following. “This, Dr. Watson, is game changing.”

A long pause follows and John wonders if he’s supposed to say anything. Dr. Adler seems lost in her own mind, expression honest-to-god blissed and John wonders briefly what it’d be like to have such passion for what you do.

He waits for a few more seconds, looking in the direction of Drs. Hawkins and Hooper for any clues on how to proceed, but the women are busy discussing something among themselves, pointing at something in a chart Dr. Hooper is carrying.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, when the silence goes on for too long, making him itchy. “What’s this question you’re talking about?”

Dr. Adler smiles, bright as the sun and perhaps a little mad. “Why, the debatably most important question of them all, Dr. Watson,” she says, leaning forward. “The one question no one has been able to answer, at least not in a satisfactory way.” She makes a pause for effect and, despite himself, John finds himself leaning forward. “What is love?”

Huh. Not where John thought this was going.

And yet, he can’t deny he’s intrigued.

* * *

 

_ The science of affection _ , the title reads and John skims through the hundredth-and-something pages of the article. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler are well established experts on the subject of relationships, it seems, although theirs is a more… chemical/biological approach, rather than physiological, even if it’s clear they both have a lot of knowledge on that subject too. Their resumes certainly confirm that: they both have several degrees in chemistry, biology, psychology and even some courses of physiatry, which is quite impressive considering how young they are (Holmes is pushing 32, Adler is 31). They’re both genius and widely recognized as such, their methods and experiments often questioned but it’s clear as water they’re good at what they do or the university would have stopped funding them ages ago (not that it’d matter, since it seems Holmes is quite loaded, exactly as his flat would suggest).

John taps his fingers over his desk, thinking once more about the offer he’s been made. Dr. Adler said he had until friday to decide and while every instinct in John’s body had screamed  _ yes, let’s do it,  _ (because he lacks any instinct of self preservation, it seems), he hadn’t given an answer right away, promising to call before friday.

It’s an interesting proposal, truth to be told, although he’s a little confused about what he’d be actually required to do: play some researcher’s boyfriend all the while having a bunch of neuroreceptors as well as other implements to keep track of his vitals attached all over his body doesn’t seem too terrible (although yeah, he can see why it might have raised some  _ moral concerns _ ). It’s not like he’s currently in a relationship and he’s never had much qualms about them either: he’s been accused more than once of being too casual with his affections. And in any case, while Dr. Adler has not specified just what exactly his tasks would be, she assured him physical intimacy was not among them.

There are, as far as John can tell, between 6 and 8 other candidates that will play boyfriend, each with particular tasks to be done. He’s not sure how that’s supposed to work or what they’ll be measuring or why they need so many boyfriends, but he hadn’t thought it was his place to ask. It sounds… well, he honestly doubts Drs. Holmes and Adler will get the answers they’re looking for, but he’s not the expert, is he?

He opens a new tab and starts looking for Sherlock Holmes. There are a few images of him online, but he seems like the kind of man who keeps mostly to himself. He’s not unattractive though and John doesn’t think playing his boyfriend (whatever that might entail) will be a particularly challenging task.

In the days to come, he’ll discover he couldn’t have been more wrong.

And yet, he’ll never regret having called Irene Adler and saying  _ yes. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I know there are a lot of still unresolved bits, but hopefully the next chapter shall sheed some more light on what the experiment is. There’s still some way to go before we get to the romance bit, but hopefully it’ll be enjoyable regardless ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	2. The idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the next chapter! I’ve finished planning the whole thing, so I’m confident this will get finished soonish and in that case, updates might come even sooner. We’ll see, I guess ;)  
> Now, without further ado, enjoy!

_ A month before _

Sherlock makes a face as he continues listening to the subject’s endless ramble, his eyes scanning the various results showing up in the screens. They show nothing abnormal, but he didn’t expect them too: he thinks this particular experiment has come to its natural end and it's time for him to move onto bigger, better things.

He realizes the subject is crying now and he huffs, annoyed. He’s made an art of studying emotional outbursts, but he still feels nothing but disdain towards those fools that suffer them. He learned a lifetime ago to always keep his cards close to his chest, to never give any sign of how affected he might be by anything at all.

_ Caring is not an advantage,  _ he had told Irene once, while they both had been pleasantly drunk, discussing the latest results from their earliest tests and The Woman had nodded very seriously, as if he had spoken the highest truth.  _ My brother used to tell me that all the time. Mycroft is wrong about many things, but not about that. _

His brother, who’s a week from celebrating his fifth wedding anniversary.  _ Caring is not an advantage, indeed. _

_ Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side  _ he had told Irene the night of said wedding, both too drunk and, in Sherlock’s case, entirely too bitter to enjoy the celebrations, so they had been finishing a bottle of champagne in the woman’s room.

Irene had laugh then, standing up on unsteady legs and reaching for her purse, grabbing her lipstick and writing Sherlock’s words down in big red letters all across the mirror.  _ That’s a good one,  _ Irene had said, smiling at him brightly,  _ that’s one for the books! _

The phrase had indeed ended up included in one of their papers, although once sober it had sounded horribly sentimental to Sherlock. But Irene liked it,  _ it’s almost like poetry. The sort of poetry one can expect from the great Sherlock Holmes  _ she had said between giggles, high on oxytocin at the time since she was seeing some girl Sherlock has long forgotten her name. When the relationship ended (rather predictably), Irene had shown up at his doorstep, drunk once more and had sobbed against his shoulder, saying over and over  _ you were right. You’re always right, damn you. _

Sherlock forces himself to focus on the results showing on the screens once more, cutting short his trip down the memory lane. Finding The Answer to The Question has been a long obsession of his and meeting Irene only fueled the fire of his curiosity. He’s never been in love himself, which had made him doubt the sentiment actually existed more than once, but if Irene (someone so similar to him, a true equal both in terms of intellect and personality) has been in love, then it must exist.

The Woman herself shows up then, pushing the door open with her hip, since she has her hands full: in one she holds a coffee cup and in the other a bunch of papers that Sherlock supposes are the results of the experiment he’s watching. The subject has stopped crying, thankfully, but she’s not talking anymore either and so Sherlock supposes that’s the end of it.

“Well, that was a bummer,” Irene says, placing the coffee cup on the desk, sliding on the chair next to his, smiling at Sherlock’s roll of eyes. “I know, I know. I also had high expectations for this one,” she murmurs, resting her elbows on the table, leaning forward, not looking at Sherlock directly. “You’d think having people recall the happiest days of their life while we track… well,  _ everything _ going on inside their bodies and brains would be more helpful.”

Sherlock huffs. “People get so… sentimental about it. It screws up all the data, because they keep mixing the memory with others, giving us false readings,” he says petulantly, pushing back on his seat. “Look at this,” he says, gesturing at the screens. “It’s all tainted with  _ guilt.” _

“You can’t ask people to turn off their feelings,” Irene says, shrugging. “Some transference is--”

“Yes, some transference is to be expected but this is ridiculous! Why can’t people just focus on what it’s important?!” he snaps angrily, earning himself a roll of eyes from his companion.

They sit in silence for a while, Irene nursing her coffee, Sherlock already planning a new experiment. “Have you considered,” Irene says suddenly, tone perhaps a little wistful. “There’s simply no answer to The Question?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Every mystery has an answer, if you know where to look for it,” he replies. “We’re just looking at it all wrong,” he murmurs. “These subjects… they’re ruled by their little  _ emotions.  _ So caught up on their  _ feelings…” _

“Isn’t love a feeling too?”

He had thought that too: once upon a time, he would have told you  _ love  _ was nothing but the result of the brain’s chemistry playing a dirty trick on you, but after all he’s seen… 

“Yes. And it’s also more than that.” He stands up, going to stand by the window, opening the curtains to let the light in. “I must understand it,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “It’s a sentiment and it’s a driving force and it’s… something else.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Irene smiling. “For someone who claims to have never been in love, you’re quite passionate about it.”

“The chemistry of love is very easy,” Sherlock replies. “I took an interest in it in highschool, I’ve told you this before: I wanted to understand why my classmates suddenly seemed more interested in making eyes at each other than  _ literally anything else.  _ And I thought I found my answer, except that wasn’t all it was,  _ it couldn’t be.  _ Why would people grew old together if all that drove them together were chemical reactions? Chemicals, hormones, electric impulses… they don’t last forever. But it seems that, for a few lucky ones, love does last forever. And when it doesn’t… well, why doesn’t it? what’s the difference?” He sighs, staring outside the window wistfully. “I just think it’s curious, that’s all.”

“Sure thing,” Irene says, raising her cup as if in a toast and the gleam in her eyes tell him she doesn’t believe a word he’s said. “Whatever you say, boss.”

But he’s not her boss and they both know that’s not the truth. The truth however… well, that’s a little more difficult to explain and Sherlock will never, ever admit it, not even to himself and certainly not aloud.

He wants to know what love is.

And why it always seems to elude him.

* * *

 

“I’ve spent the whole night thinking about it,” Irene says as soon as she enters the lab, once more bringing a coffee cup with her, but by the way her hands are shaking and her pupils are dilated, Sherlock imagines it’s not the first one. “And I think I’ve figured it out.” She’s grinning too, looking slightly mad, but if someone can pull that look, it’s definitely Irene.

“Alright,” Sherlock says, turning to her and forgetting about his half baked plan for a new battery of tests, at least for now. “What have you figured out?” he asks, perhaps a tad indulgently, something he knows will annoy Irene.

But it seems nothing will kill Irene’s good cheer on this particular morning. “The solution to our problems!” she exclaims, proud of herself, staring at Sherlock expectantly and sighing dramatically when he doesn’t react as she expects him too. “You said last night the problem was our subjects often got sidetracked. So, I’ve been thinking about it and I think I’ve found ourselves our perfect test subject!”

That does seem rather promising. “Who?” Sherlock asks, trying to keep his excitement from showing in his tone, but it’s a lost cause. Irene just grins some more, staring at him expectantly and Sherlock frowns, confused.

“You, silly!” she exclaims with a little laugh. “You’d be the perfect test subject: you would never lose sight of our objective, so you wouldn’t let the data be contaminated by external  _ emotional  _ factors.”

It does sound like a good idea, of course, except there’s a little problem. “You know I’ve never been in love,” he murmurs, somewhat moroselly and Irene waves a hand dismissively.

“Which is why my idea is so bloody brilliant!” she exclaims triunfantly. “We’ll fake the whole thing! That way, we’ll be able to watch your reactions firsthand and they won’t be contaminated by lingering feelings and old emotions. With the right stimuli, we should be able to produce the chemical reactions that are usually associated with affection and we’ll see how and when it turns into something beyond the realm of phisical reactions.”

Sherlock frowns. “But how--?”

“Do you remember that old paper we wrote about relationship archetypes?” she asks enthusiastically and Sherlock does his very best not to cringe at the mention of that paper. Between Irene and himself they have so many degrees they can get away with basically any stupid experiment they want to try, but that particular one… well. He’s never been a fan of something as imprecise as psychology and that experiment hadn’t exactly restore his faith on it as a science.

“No, no, but listen!” Irene says, correctly interpreting his expresion. “This is what we’ll do: we’ll get you a boyfriend for each archetype. And then you’ll have to… you know, just p _ lay the role  _ with each of them. That way we’ll be able to record your reactions to each of them and their actions and--”

“We’ll finally get the data we need. We’ll finally see how an human brain reacts to every aspect of a relationship and we’ll figure out what’s what makes some of them more important and lasting than others.”

“Exactly!” Irene exclaims, beyond thrilled. “Isn’t it great?”

It is, truth to be told. “Oh, oh,” Irene adds excitedly, practically bouncing on her feet. “Do you know Hawkins and Hooper in endocrinology? They’ve been working on… well, I don’t know what exactly, but it seems it’s like a neurotransmisor of sorts, that tricks the brain into releasing certain hormones at certain times. We could use it to control the boyfriends’ reactions to!”

“Won’t that raise ethical concerns, though?” Sherlock asks and Irene scoffs.

“Please. We’ll tell the board… we’ll come up with something.” She smiles. “When have we let moral concerns stop us?”

Fair enough, Sherlock thinks. “As usual, it’s a pleasure working with you, Dr. Adler,” he says in an overly formal tone, shaking her hand for good measure and Irene throws her head back, laughing merrily.

“The pleasure is all mine, Dr. Holmes,” she tells him, eyes gleaming with delight. “This is going to be great, Sherlock.  _ Game changing.  _ I can feel it.”

Yes, Sherlock thinks.

He can feel it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> We still don’t have that many answers and our boys have yet to meet-- but fear not, we’ll get to the romance, I swear ;) Also, I did tag dubious science, so bear with me :P  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	3. The first meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! May I just remind you once more of the whole “dubious science” tag. Things are bound to be sketchy at best, but hopefully it’ll make some degree of sense :P  
> Now, without further ado, enjoy!

“I’m not fully convinced this is a good idea,” Molly says and Janine hums in acknowledgment, but it’s clear she’s not really paying attention. “I’m serious,” she exclaims, slapping her partner’s arm playfully. “It seems… morally grey, at best.”

“Molls,” Janine says, in that overly fond, indulgent tone of hers that annoys Molly just a little bit: she’s not a child and she resents being treated as such. “You need to relax. We knew the whole premise was morally dubious and we were fine with it. We’re never going to get the chance to test it on human subjects on our own and while Holmes and Adler’s methods are…  _ questionable _ , they’re professionals. They know what they’re doing.”

Molly seriously doubts that. “I don’t know,” she says, biting her nails absentmindedly, making Janine roll her eyes before taking her hand in hers to make her stop. “It’s just-- I know our idea wasn’t… but to use it to make people think they’re in love… that was never the plan.”

Janine hums, letting go of her hand and leaning back on her seat. “I don’t think we need to worry about that just yet. As far as we know, the usage of our neurotransmitters will be regulated.”

Molly is far from convinced. She knows Holmes and Adler get away with a lot of highly questionable attics (the latest one being Holmes actually being one of the research subjects: in which universe is that allowed?) and so their involvement makes her wary, rather than more relaxed.

“I can’t help feeling it’ll backfire horribly,” Molly murmurs sourly, but she knows she has lost the argument. As usual.

“Don’t worry, Molls,” Janine reassures her, with a kind smile. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

She can only hope so.

* * *

 

The meeting takes place on a Sunday, just two days after John has given his final answer. When he arrives to Holmes’ flat he finds the place is a little crowded, several people going here and there instaling what seems to be several cameras, as well as microphones. It makes him wonder once more about the wisdom of agreeing to participate in the experiment, but he supposes it’s too late to back out now.

In the living room he finds Drs. Hawkins and Hooper, along with a petite blond woman. John wonders if one of the requisites for working with Holmes is being ridiculously attractive and promptly dismisses the thought, unwilling to get distracted by it.

There are another five men there already, ranging between thirty and thirty-five years old, all quite handsome themselves, although in different ways. John feels a little self conscious, having never thought himself particularly attractive and especially not now after… well,  _ everything  _ but he tries to keep his uncomfortableness from showing on his face.

He sits at one of the couches, all by himself, pulling out his phone in a desperate attempt to look busy. The other men are chatting amicably among themselves, but John has never been a terribly social creature.

“Hello,” Dr. Hawkins greets, suddenly appearing at his side, offering him a flute of champagne. “For later,” she adds with a wink and John smiles a bit shily.

“Thank you,” John says, taking a small sip. “I’ll probably need it.”

“You have no idea,” the woman replies with an enigmatic smile before going back to her companions, leaving John feeling slightly anxious. Before he can start doubting himself once more though, the door that seemingly leads to one of the bedrooms opens and Dr. Adler steps out, followed by Holmes.

John had thought the man attractive enough after seeing his pictures on the internet, but they have nothing on the real thing. 

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Adler greets, smiling like the cat that got the cream. “A pleasure to see you all here. You already know me and this is Sherlock Holmes, lead researcher of this particular experiment.” Her eyes are alight with happiness and it makes John’s stomach flip nervously. “Now, shall we begin with the explanation?”

Before she can though, the flat’s front door opens rather abruptly and another man steps in. He’s a little older than the rest of them, but handsome and he looks friendly enough. “Sorry about that,” the man says, closing the door after him. “The Tube was a nightmare this morning.”

“What are you doing here?” Holmes asks petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest, evidently displeased. Next to him, Adler has pursued her lips, just as annoyed as her companion and she has pulled out her phone, writing at quick text to someone.

“My job,” the man answers simply, walking into the living room with confidence before dropping himself next to John on the couch, startling the doctor a little. “Please,” he says after a brief pause in which Holmes and Adler just glare at him. “Proceed.”

“I’m thirty two,” Holmes murmurs bitterly. “Last thing I need is a babysitter.”

The man just smiles and John frowns, wondering what’s going on. Looking around the room, it seems the other “boyfriends” are just as confused. “Alright,” Adler says, clapping her hands to drag the attention back to her. “Lets ignore our new and very unwelcome guest and get back to business, shall we?” she says, throwing one last dirty look in the newcomer’s direction.

“So, first thing first: You’ve already met Drs. Hawkins and Hooper,” she says and the women nod in acknowledgement. “They’ll be in charge of monitoring your vitals and…well, everything really, with these,” she says, proudly presenting them something that looks an awful lot like a microchip, along with something very similar to those fancy smartwatches John has only seen announced online. “Worry not, it’s all perfectly safe,” Adler continues, smiling in what she probably thinks is a reassuring manner but missing the mark by far. “This little implant won’t hurt one bit and can be just easily removed once the experiment is finished. As for the smartwatch… well, feel free to keep it afterwards.” She smiles once more and John thinks she really ought to stop that; her smile too resembling of a shark’s to be anywhere near reassuring.

“Now, moving on-- these,” she says, taking a leather bound document Hawkins passese her. “Are your manuals. In them you’ll find your acting protocols: everything you need to know about how to react, how to behave, what to say, etc will be found here. Please read and memorize them to the best of your abilities and always, ALWAYS, keep them in mind when you’re on a session.”

Drs. Hawkins and Hooper produce more manuals out of thin air, distributing them around the room. They’re all different, John notices and he can’t help the slight chuckle that escapes him when he sees what’s written on top of his.

_ The angry boyfriend. _

Well, that sounds like fun. “We’ll try to schedule your sessions with a couple of days of anticipation, but keep in mind that might not always be the case,” Adler continues. “You must always keep your phone on you and be ready to drop everything at any given minute, which is why in your contract we also asked you to keep us informed on your job-situation and if you ever feel you’re no longer willing to put up with the odd hours, you’re free to step out. You’re being compensated most generously for your time, but you must understand being part of this experiment is, in many ways, as having a full time job.”

She looks at each of them then, staring right into their eyes as if willing them to understand the seriousness of her statement. John truly couldn’t mind less: he’s out of job currently (and he very much doubts that’ll change anytime soon) and it’s not like he has much of a social life anyway.

All in all, he thinks this whole charade works perfectly for him.

“Finally,” Adler says, after a more or less long pause, filled with tension. “May I introduce you to Dr. Mary Morstan?” she says, pointing in the direction of the blond woman, who smiles placidly at them. “She’s our resident phycologist and she’ll be in charge of your mental health. Now,  _ faking  _ a relationship sounds easy in theory, but it’s not uncommon for fiction and reality to become intermixed. It’s  _ crucial  _ that you keep Dr. Morstan updated on the subject; you’ll see her after every session--  _ every single one,  _ that’s not negotiable, no matter what.”

She nods to herself, seemingly satisfied, before turning to her fellow researcher. “I think that’s all for today. Sherlock, any last words?”

The man nods, stepping forward, clearing his throat before speaking. “First of all, I’d like to thank you for your willingness to participate in our experiment.” Good god, that voice! His tone is firm, deprived of any of the petulancy or childishness from earlier and the deep baritone makes a shiver run down John’s spine, but he manages to keep his face from betraying his feelings. “It might seem to you you’ve made the deal of a lifetime, considering the generous compensation you’ve been offered, but considering what’s stake at here-- it seems more than fair to me. That being said, this won’t be, by any means, a walk in the park and we expect your full commitment to the project, starting right now. I urge to study your manuals and your contract, make sure you understand everything before actually signing in. You’ll also be required to sign a confidentiality contract-- please, be aware we take it very seriously and we’ll sue if the need ever arises,” he pauses, his eyes traveling the room. “This is delicate work, gentlemen. I expect you to try your best to meet your end of the bargain.”

A tense silence follows, filled with anticipation and then Adler claps her hands once more, looking delighted. “I couldn’t have said it any better, Sherlock dear. Alright boys, Janine has your contracts and you’ll get your implant and smartwatch as soon as you sign them-- feel free to take as long as you need to read them and any questions… well, I’m all ears.” She grins, in that shark-way of hers and John turns his attention back to the document he’s just been handed. It’s quite long, so it must contain a ridiculous amount of special clauses, but John can’t honestly say he’s overly concerned.

At this point, he thinks he’d agree to pretty much anything. He’s too interested not to.

But curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it?

* * *

 

The first meeting went as well as it could, all things considered, Sherlock reflects. The “boyfriends” left not even ten minutes ago, carrying their manuals and their copy of the contracts, not one of them having backed out after reading them. Sherlock thinks they were quite through with them and he expects no problem on that front.

He had thought Mycroft’s willingness to check the contracts over (not to mention he’s funding most of the thing) was his way of giving him his blessing, but his brother-in-law’s presence seems to suggest otherwise.

“Me and the girls will be reviewing the first readings, alright?” Irene says, placing a hand on his shoulder gently. “Try not to get too upset now. It’ll mess your readings.”

Sherlock will try, of course, but it’s hard not to get annoyed at his brother’s meddling. He knows it’s his particular way to show he cares, but he’s never liked or appreciated it. “Of course,” he agrees placidly and Irene frowns a little, but doesn’t comment, instead retreating to the back of the flat, followed by the rest of the scientists, leaving him and Greg alone.

“Don’t you think I’m a little old for babysitting?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, careful to keep taking deep breaths in an effort to keep his temper. 

“I’m not here on your brother’s behalf, Sherlock,” Greg argues calmly, staring at him patiently. “Against your deepest beliefs, I don’t do everything he tells me to, and, in this particular case, he strongly suggested I let the matter be. But of course, I couldn’t do that, could I? Not on good conscience.”

Sherlock huffs, growing defensive. He’s always been a believer of the ending justifying the means, something he shares with Irene and with his brother, even if Mycroft would like to deny it and it’s always been a sore spot with his dear brother-in-law.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” the man asks, after a brief tense silence and Sherlock takes another deep breath in an effort to not start yelling.

“What? Weren’t you putting attention? Or was it just too advanced for your funny little brain?” he says, with more bite than he intended. He does like his brother-in-law; most of the time, anyway, when he’s not being deliberately dense.

Greg rolls his eyes though, by now well used to Sherlock’s jabs to be truly annoyed. “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he replies calmly, crossing one leg over the other, patting the space next to him on the couch, making Sherlock roll his eyes. “Come on, I just want to talk.”

Sherlock sighs dramatically, but compiles, arms still crossed over his chest. “I’m confident this will work,” Sherlock says petulantly. “You’ve already seen the protocols, I assume?”

Greg’s lips curve upwards very briefly. “Do you mean before or after your brother tweaked them?” he asks and at Sherlock’s pout he rolls his eyes dramatically. “Of course he made changes, Sherlock. Which self respecting ethics board would have allowed the experiment with you as a subject and researcher? It ruins the objectivity of it and the only reason you’ve been allowed to continue is because Mycroft made it sound like that wasn’t what was happening. At all.”

Sherlock pouts some more. He hates his brother’s meddling, but he has his uses-- if Mycroft wasn’t the Head of the ethics board at the university, he probably wouldn’t get away with so many things.

Greg sighs. “Your brother puts his own job on the line more often than not by helping you and you know it, so none of that,” he says, gesturing at Sherlock’s dramatic pout, which, of course, only encourages the younger man. “If you must know,” he continues after a brief pause, “I believe it was very well thought out,” he says, conciliatory. “Very… professional.” Sherlock preens a little, although he tells himself Greg’s praise means little to him: once upon a time, Sherlock hired him to keep notes on a particular tricky experiment he and Irene were working on and while Lestrade didn’t have as many degrees as either of them (well, he just had one, actually, in  _ biology  _ of all things), he had proved to have enough good sense and a strong moral compass, so he always ended up pulling him and Irene back when they were pushing things too far.

He had liked working with him. Right until the point when he went and fell in love with his brother, that is.

But that’s something Sherlock is not willing to contemplate right now. “Alright. Then we’re fine, right?” he asks, feeling slightly relieved despite himself. Greg sighs, running his fingers through his hair and Sherlock can’t help tensing a little.

“I mean, in theory, it could work, but you being one of the research subjects as well as the lead researcher, not to mention the whole premise, makes it morally grey at best. And in all honesty Sherlock... it’s bound to get messy.”

Sherlock scowls, irritation crawling under his skin. “I’d get messy if the main subject was your average goldfish; which is why it has to be me--” Greg shakes his head, making Sherlock doubt his words, if only momentarily. “I’ll be fine,” he argues, uncertain if he’s trying to convince Greg or himself. “You know I… I don’t feel things that way.”

“Don’t you?” Greg asks patiently, in that paternal tone of his that makes Sherlock simultaneously want to confess his every fear and lash out. He never had a very close relationship with either of his parents (which was no wonder, all things considered) but sometimes he can’t help to imagine what it would have been like, if either of his parents had cared half as much as Greg does.

“Are we going to have this conversation  _ again _ ?” Sherlock demands frustratedly and the older man sighs once more, shaking his head.

“No if you don’t want to. But Sherlock-- I’m really concerned. Not about the very questionable methods, not to mention the hundred of moral concerns you’re simply sweeping under the rug, but please take care. I’d hate to see you hurt.” Sherlock nods stiffly, slightly irritated but he can’t help the sense of uneasiness in his belly. “You really don’t know what you’re getting into.”

Sherlock huffs, standing up abruptly, already walking in the direction Irene and the rest of the team disappeared. “Isn’t that the point?” he asks rhetorically, determined to have the last word.

“Is it?” Greg asks, once Sherlock is nearly out of the room and the researcher huffs again.

Infuriating man, never letting him have the last word.

No wonder why he and Mycroft get along so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> The next few chapters are getting shorter, now that explanations are (mostly) out of the way. I hope everything will make sense (although there’s some suspension of disbelief needed, I suppose) but hopefully it’s been enjoyable anyway?  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	4. The first date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this week has been a bit hectic (also, I got distracted by another story but thankfully that was a one-shot) but well, since tomorrow I’m going on a business trip, I figured I might as well update now ;)  
> Enjoy!

Reading the relationship manual had been… surreal, to put it lightly.

John had been mostly amused though, reading through it in just one afternoon. He’s always had a good memory; not eidetic, but  still very good and it certainly helped him get his degree. He thinks he remembers most of it, although he’s a bit concerned by how honest the reactions will feel, when the time comes. He doesn’t think he’ll have any problems with the anger bit since, well, as any of his old therapists would tell you, he always has had some anger management issues, but keeping in mind just exactly what he’s supposed to say and do…

Well, that could be tricky.

But he doubts he’ll have any trouble acting tonight’s scene in the exact way the manual stated he should: he certainly feels like biting his “boyfriend’s” head off the minute he shows up: the “date” was supposed to start at 8 and now it’s nearly 8:55 and the waiter keeps giving him sad, condescending looks whenever he approaches to refill his glass of wine.

John glances at his watch once more and he groans, annoyed. The manual didn’t state if he was supposed to leave in these cases and the instructions he received this morning contained no information other than the time and place where he was supposed to meet Holmes and he’s now wondering if maybe the man simply forgot (he certainly looks like the type who would).

He leans back on his seat, wondering for what feels like the millionth time how his life came to this. He had had a rather promising career in front of him and then his penchant for danger had had him agreeing to being sent to Afghanistan (they hadn’t exactly asked, true, but John could have put more a fight, right?) and after he had been shot…

Well. Better not to linger on that.

And now here he is, with a “job” that sounds all kinds of crazy, but that certainly pays the bills. And hey, anything that keeps him from having to live with Harry is a win in his book, even if it means he has to sit in this overly posh restaurant for another three hours, all on his own, feeling terribly underdressed and enduring the waiter’s (and now the manager’s, it seems) pitying looks.

The door opens and John doesn’t bother to look, having lost hope of his date actually showing half an hour ago or so. He’s hungry and he’s dying to order something, but the manual specifically stated he’s supposed to wait for Holmes to show up and god, John is going to murder the bastard when--

“Evening,” a voice greets, making John look up. Holmes is standing in front of him, wearing a suit that looks like it costs more than what John made in a month (in the good old days, of course). He looks well put together, not a single hair out of place, very unlike John who has been running his fingers through his hair, increasingly desperate, for the last hour or so.

If the man had actually showed up in time, John would have taken his time to appreciate the perfect way his clothes seem to suit him, marveled at how handsome he looks under the lowlights of the restaurant. With things being the way they are though, John has no trouble jumping straight into his angry role.

“ _ Evening _ , really?” he demands, trying to keep his voice even, but the anger is easy enough to see. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

Holmes waves a hand dismissively, throwing a charming smile at the waiter once he shows up to offer him a menu. The smile might be even considered somewhat flirty and of course, that just gets John all the more fired up.

It’s all a ploy and yet--

“Where the fuck were you?” he demands, snatching the menu away, glaring. “I’ve been waiting for you for at least an hour! Do you have any idea--?”

“You’ve made good use of your waiting time, I see,” Holmes comments flippantly, dismissively pointing in the direction of the nearly empty wine bottle, retrieving the menu as John blushes. “I’d be careful about my alcohol consumption if I were you,” he adds after a beat. “Wouldn’t want to end up like Harry, would you?”

Briefly, John can feel a flash of anger at the man’s tone, but he quickly frowns, going over his words inside his head. “How do you know about Harry?” he asks because, well, he did fill in several forms with increasingly personal information, but Harry’s drinking habit is not something that he has never actually acknowledged at all. Holmes arches an eyebrow, slightly amused and John huffs. “Your background research was a little more through than I originally thought,” he says, torn between annoyance and embarrassment.

Holmes huffs, dropping his recovered menu on top of the table. “Hardly, but it’s plain to see if you know where to look,” he says petulantly. “Your phone,” he adds after a beat in which John just stares at him blankly.

“My phone?” John repeats, mostly confused and his companion sighs dramatically.

“Engraved,” Holmes answers, as if that explained anything at all. John just stares some more and the younger man rolls his eyes dramatically, before launching on an explanation on how he arrived to the conclusion Harry is John’s brother (ha! wrong on that front!) who has a drinking problem they both refuse to acknowledge but that had his wife leaving him and seems to be the main reason for John’s reluctance to live with him. The way he arrived to said conclusions is rather astonishing; John certainly would have never made such connections and while a part of him supposes he ought to be angry…

Well, he’s just very very curious.

“That was amazing,” he says breathlessly.

“Yes, I-- wait, what?”

John laughs at Holmes’ completely flabbergasted expression. His jaw has practically dropped to the floor, clearly not having expected John’s words; in fact, John suspects he was meant to get angrier and he thinks maybe he should: his whole life, even those facts he refuses to acknowledge to himself, have been laid bare by this stranger and yet, John can’t find it within himself to be angry, not when the way he arrived to his conclusions was so clever.

“I’m sorry,” he says, when he can stop laughing. “It’s just-- that was amazing, really.”

Holmes blinks owlishly, as if he can’t quite process the information. He drops his gaze sheepishly, a mighty blush quickly spreading across his cheeks. “That’s not what people normally say,” he murmurs, making John smirk.

“Oh, really?” he asks sarcastically, because he can imagine what people say. Still, he can’t help teasing the other man. “What do they normally say, then?”

“Piss off,” Holmes murmurs, perhaps a tad dejectedly, but he recovers quickly, his icy confident self back soon enough. “It’s nothing out of this world, really. It’s all there, if you know where to look.”

John nods, although he honestly doubts it’s as easy as Holmes makes it sound. The man is a genius, after all, he probably notices things that most people would never do.

A beat of silence, both staring at each other and then John snaps out of it, reminding himself he has work to do. “Don’t think you’re off the hook just yet,” he warns, but he can’t help the way his lips curve upwards. More than a warning, it’s a teasing remark and Holmes seems to interpret it as such.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the man replies easily, his own lips curving into a coy smile that makes John’s heart flutter.

Just what has he gotten himself into?

* * *

 

Dinner either goes surprisingly well, or terribly wrong, depending on your point of view, John supposes. He tries to stick to the manual’s protocols with little success: he and Holmes (Sherlock) will start arguing over something and then Holmes (Sherlock) will make a particular clever quip or say something that seems a little out of nowhere, John will ask about his thought process, Holmes (Sherlock) will show off, John will exclaim “amazing!” (or a variant of it) and the “anger” will evaporate just as soon as it came.

Holmes (Sherlock), John discovers, likes to presents himself as a difficult man, seemingly thriving on being contrarious, but it’s clear to him that he’s mostly misunderstood: he seems to gain no small pleasure from explaining himself and he might be a little petulant and overconfident, but he’s incredibly smart and his sense of humor is positively wicked.

John might or might not be a little charmed.

So when the night draws to his end, John finds himself reluctant to go. In particular, he finds himself reluctant to start that final argument that he’s supposed to blow out of proportion before storming out of the restaurant, not without having thrown something at his “date”.

Who came up with these protocols, anyway? How are they supposed to show how “love” works?

But he’s not the expert, of course and he wasn’t hired to question them, so he ought to stick to the script, no questions asked.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Sherlock (Holmes) once they’re outside the restaurant, John having failed at making an scene and storming out, too busy laughing at Sherlock’s latest deduction and so completely missing his cue. “I’m a terrible angry boyfriend.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock (Holmes) replies softly, a small embarrassed smile on his lips. His cheeks are flushed once more and John doesn’t think he ought to find the sight adorable, but he does.

“Well… I’ll try to be better next time,” he promises, hoping there’ll be, in fact, a next time. For all he knows, he might get fired soon enough. His companion however just smiles, nodding.

“Till next time, John,” he says and John nods, turning on his heel and leaving, trying (and failing) not to look back, as his manual said.

The fact that Sherlock (Holmes) stares at him the whole time consoles him a little.

But just a little bit.

* * *

 

As Sherlock watches John (subject #4) go, he’s a little puzzled by the fluttering feeling inside his stomach, trying to catalogue it, but failing miserably. He realizes he’s smiling in an absent minded way, an odd sense of contentment surrounding him.

He’s actually happy, he realizes with a start, eyes going wide as saucers.

Well. That’s unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Our boys have finally interacted. Yay?  
> Hopefully next chapter will be ready in time, but I guess we’ll see ;) Thanks for reading and let me know what you thought, pretty please!


	5. The error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter!  
> You know, when I started this, I overlooked one little detail: a lot of the concepts have made sense to me when I read the book but I had no idea whatsoever how to translate them to english and I’m concerned on how much sense is it making to you now :P   
> Oh well… enjoy?

The experiment is going very well.

Sherlock didn’t expect anything less, of course. As Irene predicted, he’s been the ideal test subject, being perfectly capable of isolating his emotions and reactions as needed, not allowing the results to be contaminated by past experiences and residual feelings, making his readings most enlightening. He can almost see a pattern emerging; finally, the answer he’s been searching for so long is within reach.

Or so it’d seem.

He frowns a little as he reviews the results of his latest date with John (subject #4, damnit!). He taps his fingers against the table, reading them over and over, as if by reading them enough times he’ll manage to make them change into something that makes a bit of sense.

He takes a deep breath, unwilling to let those particular results spoil his good mood. He’s happy and relaxed, much more than he’s ever been: the experiment is working wonders on him too. He was never a particularly social creature and he hadn’t known just how much he was missing by avoiding relationships altogether. The fact that all the “boyfriends” fit in neat little boxes (since they mostly stick to the manual’s instructions) it’s also very helpful: it certainly simplifies the relationships, limiting the negative bits and enhancing the positive ones.

If things continue working like this, he’ll soon know exactly what actitudes and activities, in which exact measures, make relationships last. 

His eyes fall on the results of the date with subject #4 once more. In truth, John has proved to be a terrible angry boyfriend; it always starts great: John is a very passionate man who has trouble controlling his emotions and who angers quite quickly. But the problem is, his anger is as quick to defuse as it is to make it come forward. 

That makes their interactions tricky: Sherlock normally knows how to make people angry (he might even claim to be an expert on the subject) and while it often works with John at first, trying to get him more riled up usually proves difficult, since he often finds Sherlock’s  _ deductions  _ (the easiest way to get people annoyed at him, he has found) interesting, amusing,  _ brilliant.  _ Sherlock has never been immune to praise and he loves having his ego stroked, perhaps exactly because he rarely finds someone who actually appreciates his thought process and so he quickly gets derailed too, eager to have John continue praising him.

It’s… not ideal, truth to be told.

Fighting, his previous research has shown, is an important part of relationships. There’s several literature on the merits of  _ healthy arguing,  _ but Sherlock has seen that just regular arguing (bickering or full blown fights) are part of relationships too and the brain activity that takes place during them is most confusing and interesting, no doubt the results he could obtain from his experiment would be actually quite enlightening.

He needs that data. In fact, that might be one of the most important bits of information he needs and without it, his whole experiment might prove useless. Which means… which means…

He doesn’t want to think about what it means.

_ And why is that?  _ A voice inside his head, that sounds suspiciously like his brother-in-law, asks. Sherlock scowls at nothing in particular: this is just great; it seems his brother and his husband have paired up to meddle with his business even inside his head. Bad enough was having mental discussions with his mind palace’s version of Mycroft and now--

“Oh, someone is having a sulk!” Irene’s voice breaks him out of his musing and he turns around to glare at the woman. As usual, his companion remains perfectly unaffected, throwing a winning smile in his direction. “Whoever upset you now, darling dear?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest. “Have you seen the latest results?” he asks, refusing to acknowledge her comment. Irene, well used to his moods, simply shrugs it off.

“I have,” she agrees, grinning. “Promising, aren’t they? Molly and Janine are quite pleased too.” She drops herself on the chair next to Sherlock and while she’s smiling, she looks troubled too. “There’s just… one of the subjects isn’t doing so well, have you noticed?”

Sherlock’s heart stops in his chest for some reason and he rubs the spot absentmindedly, puzzled by the feeling. What’s going on with him? “Yes, I’ve seen,” he agrees, leaning back on his seat, searching to put some distance between him and Irene for some reason. “John-- I mean, subject #4 is being… difficult.”

“That’s one way to call it,” Irene agrees, nodding thoughtfully. “I think we should get you another angry boyfriend.”

Sherlock’s heart stops once more and he rubs his chest with a little more strength, trying to ease the suffocating feeling. What the hell is wrong with him? “It seems… logical,” he agrees, confused by how reluctant he sounds. “Going through the selection progress all over again might be problematic, though.”

Irene is watching him with a funny expression on her face that Sherlock can’t (or doesn’t want to) interpret. “Perhaps,” she agrees finally, a light frown marring her features. 

They stare at each other for a beat, an uncomfortable silence descending upon them. It’s weird, because he and Irene have always found it easy to communicate even when they didn’t agree on something. For years, they’ve been each other’s closest confident but right now Sherlock can tell there’s something hanging unspoken between them, although he’s not completely sure what it is and what it means for their relationship.

“Well, I need to get going,” he says, standing up abruptly, suddenly feeling like he’s suffocating.

“Where are you going?” Irene questions, looking surprised and Sherlock doesn’t blame her, since he’s not sure where he’s going either or why he’s in such a hurry to leave.

“I’m seeing John,” the words escape his lips before he can even think about them, but they feel right. He does not know why, but visiting John sounds like the thing he needs right now.

“You don’t have a date scheduled,” Irene points out and that’s true, isn’t it? And yet-- and yet--

“Well, a little spontaneity is good for relationships, isn’t it?” he asks in what he hopes is a flippant tone although he suspects he sounds more desperate than anything else. “Besides, messing with whatever plans he already has will probably get us a very much needed fight,” he adds in a flash of inspiration and Irene’s frown deepens, but she doesn’t comment, letting him go without another word.

As he makes his way to the elevator, Sherlock wonders what’s going on with him.

He’s afraid he has no idea whatsoever.

* * *

 

Irene hums thoughtfully, as she reviews the latest results showing up on the screen. Sherlock’s little impromptu date seems to be going well (or terribly, depending on your point of view) and she doesn’t know what to make of that.

“I’m not sure what’s happening,” Janine says, scowling at the chart she’s studying. “It’s just-- these readings--” she makes a face, dropping the document over the desk. “This is not working,” she states frustratedly, pouting and Molly hurries to pat her shoulder comfortingly.

“Indeed it isn’t,” Irene agrees, leaning back on her seat. “We’re missing important data. And you say the neurotransmisor isn’t working?”

“It is working,” Molly corrects softly. “It’s just-- the hormones we’re artificially producing have nothing on the ones being produced by the research subject’s brain on its own.” Her lips twists unhappily. “It’s most puzzling.”

“What about Sherlock’s neurotransmisor?”

She already knows the answer, but she had to ask. “It’s working normally, at least when the other boyfriends are concerned,” Janine says, sounding somewhere between confused and annoyed. “It’s just when Watson is involved that all the protocols seem to… collapse.”

Irene taps her fingers against the table, displeased. “Let’s try hormonal scenario #3 once more, shall we?” she says, although she’s mostly convinced it’s not going to work. Under normal circumstances, that particular scenario would have both men going after each other’s throats but with Watson…

Well, expectations keep getting challenged.

And she doesn’t like it one bit.

* * *

 

“Where’s Sherlock?” a voice asks, startling Irene out of her quiet contemplations. A quick look in the direction of the window lets her know it has gotten quite late, the sun having sunk at least an hour ago. She had intended to go home and sleep on this particular problem, but she had got lost in her thoughts while trying to decide whether or not to confront Sherlock just yet.

“What are you doing here?” she counters easily, making her companion roll his eyes dramatically.

“I brought dinner,” Greg says, signaling the take out containers he’s carrying. “That  _ maternal  _ boyfriend is doing a lousy job of keeping Sherlock nurtured,” he sounds somewhere between annoyed and concerned and Irene can’t help the fond smile that comes unbidden to her lips.

“Good thing Mycroft keeps you around,” she says teasingly, earning herself a glare from Greg. She smiles, standing up and moving closer to the kitchen counter so she can examine the contain of the takeout boxes. “You’d be a terrific maternal boyfriend.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” Greg argues, rolling his eyes once more. “Now, I’ll ask again-- Where’s Sherlock?.”

Irene hums. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? An actual husband to look after?” 

Greg sighs dramatically. “What are you doing here, Irene?” he asks, ignoring her question and Irene huffs, amused. After a beat in which they just stare at each other, she puts on the latest results of the experiment on her phone’s screen and passes it silently to her companion, thinking maybe she needs the input from an outsider. Greg’s opinions have always been… insightful, even if neither she or Sherlock would acknowledge that out loud. “Huh,” the man murmurs after a while, his eyes still scanning the screen, narrowing his eyes probably because of how small the screen is.

“Do you see the problem?” Irene asks, leaning against the counter.

“Do you?” Greg shots back, arching an eyebrow and looking terribly smug.

She glares, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “I just don’t understand why nothing seems to be working,” she murmurs sulkily. “We’ve tried everything and yet--”

Greg laughs then, making the woman glare at him once more. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologises, once he has managed to catch his breath. “It’s just… you really don’t know, do you?”

Irene just stares expectantly and the man chuckles some more, shaking his head affectionately. “Alright, that’s quite enough,” she says sulkily. “Spill.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Greg asks, smiling fondly. “You can’t make any sense of the results, because they’re not meant to make any sense.” At Irene’s annoyed look, he just smiles wider, before carrying on. “He’s actually falling in love.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever,” Irene argues, growing more annoyed with each passing second.

“Love rarely does,” her companion argues calmly.

No, that can’t be true. That’s exactly what they’re trying to prove, isn’t it? That love does follow a logical pattern, even if it’s not easy to see. That can’t be what’s happening. There’s simply no way that’s what’s happening.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I think this might end up being shorter than I initially predicted, based on how the plot is advancing. In any case, I hope you’ll continue enjoying it to the very end ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	6. The error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m actually very excited about this one; been wanting to write it from the very beginning actually ;)  
> Enjoy!

The first sound that greets her after opening the door, has Irene on high alert.

It’s not a bad sound, per se, certainly not threatening in any way, but it’s so unusual she has no idea how to react to it. She’s known Sherlock for years, they practically lived in each other pockets all through their college years, so she’s well used to almost all of Sherlock’s moods.

This, however, is completely new.

“You’re singing,” she accuses, as if she had caught him doing something illegal. 

“I’m humming,” Sherlock corrects  _ cheerfully  _ and Irene thinks there’s definitely something fishy going on. “I’m also making toast. Do you want some?”

Has the world gone crazy in the middle of the night and Irene somehow managed to miss the memo? What the hell is going on here? “Sure. You don’t happen to have any jam, do you?”

“Strawberry,” Sherlock replies, looking completely unbothered, like nothing weird is going on. “John convinced me to buy it last night at Tesco’s.”

“What were you doing at Tesco’s?” Irene asks. “And why was John with you?”

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, evidently still not seeing there’s something wrong with all this. “He was going to the shops when I came in. I offered to tag along.”

Irene goes through last night’s results on the experiment. “You were at Tesco’s the whole time?” that makes no sense. Sherlock’s oxytocin levels were off the charts! He was happy and relaxed and  _ satisfied _ and that’s not the kind of feelings one associates with doing the shopping.

“Not all night, obviously. Just part of it.”

Irene takes a deep breath, willing herself not to lose her composure. “Sherlock that’s not-- and wait a minute. What time did you come in last night? Greg and I left a little before midnight--”

“What were you doing you two here?” Sherlock asks, placing a plate of toast in front of Irene, a ridiculously fancy jam jar next to it. “Come on, eat while it’s still warm.”

“Sherlock,” Irene says, in her most deadly serious tone, making the man turn to her and pay her his full attention. “What the hell is going on here?” she asks-- no, demands to know. The experiment is going well, great even but this… this  _ John…  _ that’s not… all this…

“What do you mean?” he asks, still in that cheerful tone and Irene wants to scream. 

“You!” she exclaims, frustratedly. “Sherlock, this… all this… can’t you see it?” at the man’s uncomprehending look, Irene forces herself to take a deep breath and get her frustration under control. “Give me a minute,” she murmurs finally and Sherlock frowns, but doesn’t protest. In the meantime, Irene decides that showing him the experiment results of last night might be the best way to handle the situation. “Here,” she says. “See it for yourself.”

Sherlock frowns as he reviews the readings, tilting his head to the side as he thinks. Irene waits, as patiently as she can. “This is from last night?” Sherlock asks finally, skimming through the rest of the document.

“Yes,” Irene replies. “We were lacking visuals, of course, but based on these results… you see what the problem is, don’t you?”

“It makes no sense,” Sherlock declares, although Irene isn’t sure if that’s an affirmation or a denial. Her companion places the documents on the table, staring at them, but not really seeing. “No sense whatsoever.”

“I know,” Irene says gently, softly, as if speaking to an skittish animal. “This Watson fellow… it’s just not working, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods, although he looks reluctant. “I… What do you propose?”

Irene stares at him intently, knowing he’s not going to like her next words. “We need a new angry boyfriend,” she declares sternly and Sherlock nods once more, with the slightest bit of reluctance.

“Of course if… if you think that’s best…”

On the counter, Sherlock’s phone rings with an incoming next. When he picks it up and reads it, Irene doesn’t have to ask who is it from, judging by the way Sherlock’s whole face lights up. She bites her lip, unsure of whether or not she ought to press the subject. “Sherlock,” she says in her softer tone, making him look at her. “Remember when we started this? Remember why we agreed you’d be the perfect test subject?”

“Irene--”

“Because you said, and I quote, that you could keep your emotions under control. That unlike those simple  _ goldfish  _ you would be able to separate your emotions, to not allow them to get in the way--”

“I know!” he yells and it strikes Irene how desperate he looks, how  _ lost.  _ Her heart constricts painfully inside her chest and she wonders, not for the first time to be completely honest, if they’re doing the right thing. She has always believed the end justifies the means, but maybe… “I know,” Sherlock whispers dejectly. “I need… I need time to think.”

Irene nods, figuring that’s fair. She’ll leave in a bit and will let him think about what he wants to do now. She picks up a piece of toast and starts chewing, making a show of it, in an attempt to stop Sherlock’s thoughts from turning too morose. “This is good,” she informs him and Sherlock’s lips curve upwards briefly,  _ gratefully. _

She wonders if she deserves it.

The answer, she fears, is probably not.

* * *

 

The front door opens, startling Sherlock out of his dark thoughts. For most of the day he’s been sitting in front of the window, after having cancelled all his appointments of the day and has been just staring outside, seeing everything and nothing at the same time.

“Having a rough time, are you?” Greg asks gently, taking a seat on the long couch and Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically.

“I don’t need your  _ help, _ ” he hisses angrily, glaring daggers at the other man. “Kindly show yourself out,” he demands and Greg just sighs, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sherlock,” he says, in that endless patient tone of his. “I understand this isn’t easy for you.” A huff. Understatement of the century, really. “But this is a good thing. It could be an splendid thing, even, if you’re willing to fight for it.”

Sherlock hesitates. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he spats, angry because he’s the one who doesn’t understand. “The experiment… that’s what matters. And if John-- Watson-- subject #4 is being a problem, I need to find a new test subject.”

“And lose the best thing that could happen to you,” Greg points out gently. “Is that what you want?”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock argues, shaking his head. “It’s just… it’s all… I’ll be fine.”

Greg sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Sherlock, why is that you’ve spent your whole life looking for the meaning of love and yet, when it’s staring right into your face, you insist on running away?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock argues, although there’s no real fire in his words. “Love isn’t… that’s not… that can’t be it.”

“Why not? Because you can’t make it fit in a nice tidy box?”

Sherlock growls, standing up abruptly. “You know nothing!” he yells and why does he feel like a twelve year old arguing with his older brother who thinks he knows best all over again?

“I know you’re not going to get the answers you're looking for,” Greg states calmly, in that tone of his that resembles an overly tired but caring parent, who’s explaining a very simple concept to a very small child, which is beyond infuriating.

“You understand nothing,” he repeats angrily, already grabbing his coat and heading for the door, annoyed beyond reason. He’s beginning to fear Greg is right, but he won’t give anyone the satisfaction of abandoning the experiment just yet.

“Sherlock,” Greg says, in his  _ I’m a reasonable person and you’re not  _ tone, that always makes Sherlock stop mid motion to actually listen because, as much as he’d hate to admit it, Greg is quite reasonable. “Love isn’t… it can’t be explained. It can’t be reduced to hormones and the brain’s chemistry: that might account for the original attraction and infatuation and those first months when you feel like you’re floating, but love-- actual love, the one that keeps people together, no matter the time or the distance or the problems--”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock snaps, turning back to him, arms crossed in front of his chest defensively. “You are going to give me this crap about love being a  _ indescriptible feeling _ ? Just because you managed to get my emotionally stunted brother to marry you, it doesn’t make you an expert on--”

“Love is a choice,” Greg interrupts, but there’s no sharpness in his tone, no judging. Just some faint amusement, but it’s fond, not mocking. He never mocks Sherlock and his lack of understanding of social cues and emotions and maybe that’s why Sherlock always ends up listening to him, despite being convinced he knows better.

“A choice?” Sherlock asks, honestly pluzzed, and the other man smiles brightly, eyes taking a far away look. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Greg’s smile turns wistful. “Do you think things between your brother and I are easy?” he asks and the honest answer is  _ yes.  _ If he must be completely honest, part of the reason he started this experiment was because he’s a little envious of what his older brother has managed to find,  _ without even looking  _ one might add. “Well, let me dispeal you of such notion: they’re not, not by far.” He’s smiling, still smiling though and surely it’s not that bad, then. “We-- we don’t always agree and we’re pretty stubborn so it can be… challenging. We did have a whirlwind romance, full of passion and we could barely function away from each other and whatnot, but that’s not… that wasn’t love. That was being high on oxytocin and itching for the next dose.”

Sherlock huffs, slightly amused. He realizes he has come closer, now sitting on the edge of the couch, watching Greg almost eagerly. He’d be annoyed at his reaction, but he’s always been too curious for his own good. Greg’s smile is softer now, fonder and it makes something in Sherlock ache, although he doesn’t know what. “But that passed,” Greg carries on. “I tell you love is more than chemical reactions that trigger bodily reactions because I know that for a fact-- it passed and yet we stayed together because  _ we wanted to.  _ We had a life plan together, we had built up something neither wanted to lose, no matter how much work we actually had to put into it. And so sometimes we argue and sometimes we get on each other nerves and the desire might not be what it was at first, but we’ve chosen to love each other and so we work for it.”

Sherlock scoffs. “It doesn’t sound… that’s not how people normally describes it,” he says, scrunching his nose in displeasure. “It seems… If that’s love, then it sounds like an awful lot of work. Why would someone want to do that?”

Greg shakes his head, amused, a soft giggle escaping his lips. “You don’t understand,” he says gently, coming to stand next to Sherlock. “But I hope you will,” he adds, patting his shoulder affectionately. He moves towards the door and Sherlock realizes the annoying man has managed to get the last word in their conversation, when he fully intended to get the last word himself. “Although you’re right,” he adds, half turning to him, standing by the door now. “It is a lot of work. And that’s why it’s a choice: you can either work for it… or you can walk away.”

And with that he’s out of the flat, leaving Sherlock with just his thoughts for company.

_ Dammit,  _ Sherlock thinks morosely, staring around his empty flat, absentmindedly gazing at his smartwatch that’s still taking his readings, absentmindedly tracing the place where the neurotransmisor went on the inside of his elbow. He pulls out his phone, contemplating John’s number for the longest time, his finger hovering over it for the longest time.

_ No,  _ he tells himself, dropping his phone, going to stand by the window so he can continue watch the city pass and distract himself from his conflicted thoughts.  _ He’s wrong,  _ he tries to convince himself, but he suspects it’s not going to work.

Still, he intends to carry on with his experiment.

He’ll prove him wrong. Because surely… surely that’s not it. People can not be that obsessed with something… it doesn’t sound… it just doesn’t…

It can’t be right.

But what if it is?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I actually had already written that last scene before I started working on the actual fic. Because I’m a big old sap and while I love the idea of love being an unexplainable thing… I also do believe it’s 100% a choice.  
> So, anyway, let me know what you thought?  
> Thanks for reading!


	7. The dismissal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Enjoy!

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Irene asks, for what’s probably the millionth time and Sherlock glares at her, although only half heartedly.

“Are you having second thoughts?” he asks because, well,  _ he is,  _ but he’s  _ emotionally compromised  _ and so he can’t trust his own judgement. He’s confident he can trust Irene’s though; he always has, even if it’s the sort of thing he wouldn’t admit out loud.

“I don’t know,” Irene confesses softly, chewing on her nails briefly, before realizing what she’s doing and scowling a little. “It’s the best for the experiment,” she says in a false confident tone, mostly to convince herself, Sherlock suspects.

“Then do it,” he says and why does it feel like he’s just signed someone’s death warrant?

Irene watches him in silence for another beat, before nodding firmly to herself and hitting the “send” button. They remain at their seats, staring at the computer’s screen, waiting for the little message that will confirm their email has been read.

_ Termination of contract- message read. _ The words finally appear and Sherlock stares at them, as if he couldn’t understand them, as if they made no sense whatsoever. His heart gives a dull throb, but he pays it no mind.

“It was for the best,” he says softly.

“For the best,” Irene agrees, just as softly.

Somehow, he doesn’t truly believe so.

* * *

 

“You need to talk to your brother.”

“Whatever for?” Mycroft asks, sounding vaguely annoyed, not raising his eyes from the documents he’s reading. Greg rolls his eyes dramatically, coming to stand next to his husband, glaring at him until he finally looks up. “Gregory, I’m busy,” he argues. “Can’t this wait?”

“Sorry, but no. Your brother is making the biggest mistake of his life and you need to stop him.”

Mycroft huffs, leaning back on his seat. “If you haven’t got him to listen, what makes you think he’ll listen to  _ me _ ? You know how things are between us. He’ll do the exact same opposite of what I say, just to spite me.”

Greg rolls his eyes once more. “Just-- talk to him, please? I think… I think that on this particular case, you might be able to get through him better than I ever could.”

Mycroft frowns, unconvinced. “I’ll see what I can do,” he agrees finally and Greg beams, making Mycroft roll his eyes fondly. “Now off you go. I do have a lot of work to do.” He turns his attention back to his papers or at he least pretends to, although Greg is not one bit fooled.

Mycroft is just as concerned about the whole thing as himself, he’s certain of that. With any luck, they’ll convince Sherlock of not walking out on what could be the chance of a lifetime.

But he’s not very hopeful, truth to be told.

* * *

 

John takes a sip of his tea and winces, noticing it has gone cold, only to remember he had already noticed that twenty minutes ago. He’s been sitting in front of his computer for what feels like a lifetime and so he has lost all real track of the pass of time, reading over and over the same message, as if he could make it change if he reads it enough times.

But it won’t change what it says, he knows, and what is he supposed to do know?

He should let the matter go, he knows. He should close his laptop, shrug it off and carry on with his life. Of course, losing the money of the study isn’t going to be a walk in the park, but he was paid rather handsomely for his time for these last few months and besides, he remembers reading something about a compensation in case of an “early termination” somewhere in the contract, although he can’t remember the number right now.

In any case, he’s confident he’ll be fine. His situation is far from dire now and he can probably afford to continue living in his flat, if he’s careful enough about the money, for at least another year. Besides, he finally got a call from a nearby clinic and while they pay isn’t great, it should be enough.

By all means, he’ll be fine, even without the money from the study.

And yet--

This hole inside his chest has nothing to do with worrying over the bills. It has to do with everything else he has lost along with the study: the fun and the excitement, the never knowing what was going to happen next, the company and Sherlock--

He rubs his breastbone absentmindedly, trying his best not to get overwhelmed by the sudden torrent of emotions. More than anything else, he can admit to himself he’s going to miss Sherlock. They were getting along so well! He thought-- he knew he was being a terrible study subject, but he had thought--

He had dared to believe they were becoming friends, perhaps something more. Sherlock’s impromptu visit the other night had made his heart skip several beats and his head spin, despite the fact they had done nothing noteworthy. And yet, it had been-- it had been--

Well. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

John sighs, rubbing his temples tiredly, finally closing his laptop in an effort to stop staring at the short message obsessively. Just a short, impersonal email. Not even a proper message from Sherlock, not even a text to let him know--

He pinches himself harshly, sharply reminding himself this isn’t a fairytale. What did he think that would happen? That he and Sherlock would eventually declare their undying love to each other and ride out into the sunset? How stupid can someone be?

Nothing for it now, he supposes.

What a fool he’s been.

* * *

 

A door slams closed, making Irene jump. She looks away from the monitors, rubbing her fingers over her eyelids in an effort to lubricate her eyes, that feel entirely too dry. She’s been staring at the monitors for hours, perhaps a tad too obsessively, trying to make sense of the results but failing miserably.

It’s been 3 days since Watson was “fired” and they have yet to get a new “angry” boyfriend, but she’s beginning to suspect it’ll be an useless exercise. Sherlock’s mood lately has been…  _ volatile,  _ to say at least and it has messed the results much worse than spending time with Watson ever did.

“Irene,” Molly calls and by her tone Irene must assume she’s been trying to get her attention for a while. “Sherlock has just left.”

Irene sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He was the one slamming the door, I presume?” Molly nods tightly and Irene sighs once more. “Let him go.”

“He has a  _ date  _ in an hour,” Janine points out. She and Molly are sharing concerned glances, but Irene pays them no mind. “I don’t think--”

“He won’t show up,” Irene says. “I think-- will you call it off, please? In fact, cancel all plans for the next week.”

Janine bites her lip, biting her reply back too no doubt, but Irene keeps her expression perfectly unfazed. Inside though, she’s a mess of confusion, guilt and anger, but there’s no use in taking her frustration out on her companions.

She needs to talk to Sherlock.

She suspects that won’t end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone? We’re approaching the end of our tale and may I remind you this will have a happy ending? ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re so close to the end I couldn’t resist posting the new update :P  
> I hope you’ll enjoy it!

To say Sherlock is in a bad mood would be the understatement of the century.

He doesn’t fully understand what he’s feeling though. He’s angry, he thinks, and annoyed, although he can’t say for sure _why_ he’s feeling like that. He’s generally annoyed by people’s general incompetence, but nothing Molly said this morning would have made his snap on such way on a regular day.

Why did it make him snap today, then?

There’s an itch beneath his skin he can’t possibly explain, let alone attempt to soothe. Everything feels wrong somehow: the flat was too warm and the streets are too cold. The illumination was too bright inside and not nearly enough outside. He’s hungry but the idea of eating makes his stomach revolt. He wants to scream and laugh and cry, all at the same time.

What the hell is wrong with him?

He pulls out his phone from his coat pocket, his finger hovering over John’s contact information for what’s probably the millionth time in the past three days. He knows the doctor’s presence would help center him, even if he doesn’t understand why. But he knows he shouldn’t, he knows it’d be wrong, he knows it’d compromise the experiment and yet--

And yet--

He puts his phone away once more, sighing. He won’t contact John, no matter what. He’s just emotionally compromised right now, but he’ll soon be feeling better.

It’s just a matter of time.

Isn’t it?

* * *

 

The flat is empty, when he finally comes back, or at least that’s his first impression after entering. A more trough search reveals Irene, still sitting in front of the monitors, but not _seeing_ them. She looks… weary, almost resigned in a way that Sherlock is not used to seeing her. He sits next to her, well aware she hasn’t even noticed his presence and waits.

“I thought--” Irene begins finally, after what feels like a lifetime. “I thought this experiment was a great idea,” she pauses, searching for words, eyes still staring blankly at the monitors. “I thought you’d be the perfect test subject; you’re always so… aren’t you always mocking us, the regular mortals, for letting our feelings get in the way? Isn’t that why you’ve always found our research subjects so annoying?”

Sherlock nods slowly, knowing where this conversation is going and not liking it one bit. “You’re emotionally compromised, Sherlock,” she sentences darkly, her hands curling into fists. “You’re letting your emotions get in the way. Our work-- isn’t that more important? Isn’t that all you’ve ever cared for?”

It was. And he supposes, in a way, it still is, but-- “I can’t explain it,” he confesses softly. “I don’t-- I don’t know what happened.”

Irene rubs her temples tiredly, leaning back on her seat. “We simply cannot continue like this, Sherlock. There’s no point to it if you’re not committed--”

“I am!” Sherlock interrupts sharply, annoyed at the implication. “I just-- I don’t-- It’s difficult, alright! I can’t-- I feel--”

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Irene snaps. “I thought you didn’t feel things that way?”

He didn’t. He doesn’t. Does he?

“What do you want me to say?” he demands, realizing he has no real answer for her.

“I want to know if we’re in this together or not,” she argues sharply. “And if you aren’t… well. Then I guess we’re done here.” She stands up abruptly, her chair falling down. She looks… concerned, perhaps, angry too. She’s shaking and Sherlock can’t determine why.

“Irene,” he tries and she doesn’t turn to face him again, but she does stop her quick retreat. “I’m sorry.”

A pause. “So am I.”

And with that, she’s out of the room.

* * *

 

It’s disconcerting, this amount of _feelings._ Surely people don’t feel this much on regular basis? How do the manage to survive, if that’s the case?

Sherlock shakes his head, annoyed. He feels like he needs to keep moving or risk exploding with all this contained energy, but it’s quickly becoming obvious pacing and thinking about his issues is only making him all the more anxious.

He does not like feeling this way.

He’s upset about his argument with Irene, that much is true, but he’s not sure what to do about it. Ever since they met, they haven’t really had a real argument, just some light bickering. Her last statement felt like an ultimatum, though and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

He messed up somewhere and he needs to fix that mistake. But--

If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t think he can carry on with the experiment. And if that’s the case--

The front door opens, startling him out of his messy thoughts. He arches an eyebrow, surprised, but unwilling to show how much and also trying to stop the wave of relief he suddenly feels from showing on his face.

No need to make his brother feel any more smug than he probably already feels.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, trying to summon some anger, because he truly doesn’t like his brother’s meddling, but in this particular case… well, he definitely needs someone to talk to. Someone who’ll probably understand too.

“Keeping my husband happy,” Mycroft replies easily, strolling into the flat as if it was his own. “He insisted I talked to you.”

That’s probably true, but Sherlock knows his brother too well to believe that’s the full truth. “I’m fine,” he snaps, waving a hand dismissively.

“You clearly aren’t,” Mycroft argues calmly, sitting down on the couch and leaning back comfortably. “I do recall advicing you to proceed with caution; the parameters of the experiment were… it was likely lines would be crossed. Although perhaps you weren’t paying me any mind, as you tend to do?”

Sherlock scoffs. “I find your meddling bothersome. And your belief that you always know better is annoying.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes dramatically. “I’m not going to have this argument with you again, _brother dear._ I’m not interesting on resurrecting old ghosts, but I am worried about your current state. It’s obvious the study isn’t giving you the results you hoped for?”

“It is. It was.” Sherlock shakes his head, pouting. “I don’t understand what happened.”

“I’ve told you before, this… _obsession_ of yours with _love_ will always be a fruitless pursue. The subject is just too vast to try to explain it, as you’ve been trying to do for _years._ Really Sherlock, haven’t you learned that by now?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes dramatically. “Why do you keep convincing the board of letting me go on with my experiments then?” he asks petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Mycroft sighs, looking away. “Perhaps that’s been my mistake,” he says softly, so soft Sherlock isn’t sure if he said anything at all. “But nevermind that. In this particular case, I think you’ve gone too far. And you know it, don’t you?”

Sherlock huffs, but doesn’t argue. He’s not sure what the problem is, truth to be told, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge that to his brother. Still--

“What do you propose I do, then?”

“The experiment is cancelled, anyway,” Mycroft informs him. “I’ve been reviewing the latest results and they’re… troublesome, to say at least. And it’s obvious that any result you might get now can’t be trusted, seeing your current emotional state.”

Sherlock bites his lip, uncertain what he’s feeling. Upset, he thinks, about having allowed himself lose sight of his objective. Upset too, about how much the experiment has costed him and it all being for nothing.

“You’ve quarreled with Dr. Adler too,” Mycroft continues after a beat. “I know how much you value her, so I suppose that’s doing no favours to your emotional state.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock argues dismissively. “It’s not… we’re not… it’s not important.”

“Platonic relationships are just as important as romantic ones. Or so have your research lead me to believe,” Mycroft says, smirking a little: it’s their own little inside joke, referring to their inability to feel things as _goldfish_ do.

Sherlock huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “She gave me an ultimatum. If the experiment--”

“I don’t think it was an ultimatum per se,” Mycroft argues calmly. “I think she was understandably upset and she’s never been that good at managing her emotions.” He pauses, smirking briefly. “As a certain someone else I know.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “As if you’re one to talk.”

“I’m the one who's been married for five years, aren’t I? I’d say I’m better at this feelings business.”

“Doubtful,” Sherlock scoffs. “If it wasn’t for Lestrade, you’d be just as hopeless.”

His brother nods, conceding the point. “That’s not here not there, though. The real issue is, what you’re going to do now?”

Sherlock sighs, shaking his head. “What do you suggest?”

Mycroft considers this for beat, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’d suggest apologizing to Dr. Adler first and then contacting Dr. Watson for the same reason. It’s far from the solution to your emotional turmoil, but it’ll be a good first step, I believe.”

“Really, just apologize?” Sherlock asks ironically. “If only it was that easy.”

“You’d be surprised. Love, it seems, can truly conquer it all.” He smirks at Sherlock’s annoyed look, coming to stand in front of him. “I mean it, Sherlock. Give it a try.”

Sherlock stares at his brother doubtfully, but he supposes he doesn’t have a choice, does he?

He can only hope it’ll work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I fear the ending might feel a bit rushed, so next chapter might be turn to be quite long, but hopefully that won’t be a bad thing?  
> In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed the chapter.  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	9. The answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! The final chapter! I’m… happy with how this went, but I’m not sure if it feels a little rushed.  
> Oh well, enjoy?

“It’s ridiculous,” Irene informs him very seriously, arms still crossed over her chest. Anyone would see she’s still upset, but Sherlock knows her well enough to see she’s slowly warming up to him.

“I am sorry,” he repeats for what feels like the millionth and Irene huffs, rolling her eyes dramatically.

“Well… it’s not like it’s your fault,” she acknowledges softly, tapping her fingernails against her mostly empty coffee cup. “I mean… it’s not like you deliberately choose to start developing feelings when we were working on the most important experiment of our lives.”

“Irene--”

“Because  _ love  _ is apparently something you can not actually control,” she carries on, undeterred, the annoyance clear in her tone. “Not even when you’re the great Sherlock Holmes, completely capable of controlling his feelings because he’s not a bloody goldfish, unlike the rest of humankind.”

Sherlock sighs. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Probably not,” Irene agrees, taking a sip from her cup and scrunching her nose when she notices it is now officially empty. “But, I’d say it’s not a terrible price to pay, all things considered.” She watches him in silence for a beat, tilting her head to the side. “I’m… disappointed, I must confess.”

Sherlock considers this for a beat, passing her his own (untouched) cup of coffee in a gesture of goodwill. “I am too, to be honest. It seemed… we were getting somewhere, weren’t we?”

Irene makes a face, before shrugging non committedly. “I don’t know. I think… this little  _ inconvenience  _ seems to suggest there might not be an Answer after all. How would you explain the fact you actually fell in love with Dr. Watson but felt nothing but passing affection for the rest of the subjects? The ones who actually followed their manuals, may I add.” 

Sherlock nods, conceding the point. For a while, they sit in silence, Irene drinking her new coffee cup, Sherlock staring outside the cafe’s window absentmindedly. “Molly and Janine were getting somewhere, certainly,” Irene says after a beat, swirling her cup. “Have you considered-- for all intents and purposes, you both were under chemicals’ influence, even if the neurotransmisors never seemed to work as well as we hoped when it came to the two of you.”

Sherlock considers this for a beat. It’s something he has failed to think about, to be honest. “I hadn’t,” he answers finally, sitting up a bit straighter, biting his lip. “It might be-- yes, I suppose it might be one possible explanation.” Yes, he and John might have been under certain chemicals’ influence and now that there won’t be any outside interference, things might fall apart, but he thinks-- no, he  _ believes--  _ “I guess we’ll see,” he decides finally, with fake confidence.

“ _ We’ll see, _ ” Irene repeats, eyes alight with mischief. “How very unlike you,” she adds while Sherlock glares at her. “I guess what they say it’s true then: love changes us all.”

Sherlock glares some more, but there’s no real heat in it.

She’s right, after all.

* * *

 

_ Five unread messages. _

John tosses his phone on the bedside table, resisting the urge of opening those unread messages. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, imagining one of them comes from the person he actually wants to hear from, only to be disappointed once more.

He inspects his reflection on the mirror, scowling a little. He has finally gotten an actual job and he does not want to screw up his first day at the clinic, but there’s nothing to be done about the dark circles beneath his eyes and he looks somewhat disheveled, although he can’t quite pinpoint why.

Maybe it’s just that he’s feeling like crap and it shows.

He sighs, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. It’s useless to keep torturing himself with thoughts of what he’s lost and what it could have been, particularly since it’s becoming more and more obvious that he was alone in such feelings.

His phone rings with an incoming call and John sighs, sending it to voicemail without looking, heading for the door as he grabs his coat and his keys. He can’t be late, that will definitely give the wrong impression and--

His coat, keys and phone end on the floor the minute he opens the front door though, all his concerns about being late disappearing from his mind at the sight that greets him just outside his flat.

“Hello John,” Sherlock greets, in that deep baritone of his and John is torn between throwing himself into the other man’s arms, holding him as if there was no tomorrow and punching him in the face.

“Sherlock,” he says, through clenched teeth. “What are you doing here?”

The younger man has the decency to look ashamed, dropping his eyes to the ground. “I-- you weren’t answering my texts.” 

John’s heart skips a beat at the words. So the texts were from Sherlock, after all. “Why would I?” he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort not to lose his temper. “You fired me, remember? I’m not at your beck and call anymore.”

Sherlock bites his lip, looking at him from underneath his lashes and John wishes his heart would get on with the program and stop finding the other man so damn adorable! Has it already forgotten this same man broke his heart not even a week ago, without even having the decency of talking to him face to face?

“I’m sorry about that,” Sherlock says softly, not quite meeting John’s eyes. “That was a huge… misjudgement, I’ve come to realize. I didn’t have all the data” he smiles, a small fleeting thing that’s full of hope. “I was hoping… I was hoping we could start over?”

John’s heart does something funny inside his chest and he scowls at nothing in particular. There’s no way he’s going down this rabbit hole once more, no sir. “With the experiment, you mean?”

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. “Not exactly. I… the experiment has been canceled,” he explains and that’s when John notices how far from his usual confident self Sherlock looks. “But I… I’d like us to start over.”

John frowns, processing the words. “You mean… dating. Actual dating? No more of this manual nonsense? No more scripts to act?”

Sherlock huffs, amused. “It’s not like you sticked to the manual, John,” he says, a small chuckle scaping him and John can’t help his answering smile. “But yes. No more of that. No more artificial hormones either.”

Oh, right. The neurotransmisor. John had forgotten about it, but-- “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks and while he really wants to agree, he wants to make sure they’re on the same page here.

“John, before I met you… I had been studying  _ love  _ for years but I never understood what it really was, some days I didn’t believe it even existed. And now… well, I still don’t understand and it certainly doesn’t make one bit of sense, but with you it doesn’t really matter. Who cares if love can’t be explained or described, when you can actually feel it?”

It might not be the most romantic statement of the century, but from a man with such a scientific mind as Sherlock, it certainly means a lot. John’s heart is still doing somersaults and by now John has stopped trying to get it to behave rationally.

“I have to go to work now,” he says very seriously, and Sherlock immediately turns to him, eyes wide with something that looks an awful lot like fear and John rushes to reassure him. “But you can come pick me up after my shift is over. See where we from there.”

Sherlock’s smile is bright as the sun and he nods eagerly. “Of course. I’ll see you at seven!” he declares, turning on his heel, still grinning madly and John rolls his eyes, before grabbing him by the arm, making him turn around. “John?”

John doesn’t answer, instead doing something he’s been wanting to do for some time but hadn’t, because while he might not have paid much attention to the relationship manual, he did read it.

The kiss is a chaste brush of lips, so fleeting it barely counts as such. Still, Sherlock stares at him with a dreamy expression, blinking owlishly a couple of times and John laughs good naturedly. “Until later, then,” he says, moving to pass next to a still too shocked and blissed out to properly react Sherlock.

John smiles. He’s no expert on this love business, truth to be told.

But he has a good feeling about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I fear there might be some loose ends, but nothing terribly important, I hope? It’s a little simple, I know, but I wanted to write a happy ending and I think it certainly leaves us in that road, doesn’t it?  
> As usual, a million thanks to everyone who read, left kudos and/or commented!

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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